Five Times Merlin Held Arthur
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: ...and One Time Arthur Held Merlin.
1. Chapter 1

_You'll never guess where I am right now-literally and figuratively. Literally I am in Pensacola, Florida, sitting in a hotel, looking out across the white sand and blue ocean while a storm is kicking. The figuratively is reason for the literally; I am here because I am at that place in my life when I'm choosing what to do with the rest of it. If I decide to go to the college I'm visiting here, it will be the beginning of a wildly brand-new start for me. I've lived in Winston-Salem, North Carolina my whole life, gone to the same church, same (tiny, boring, gray) school, same general area, same people, same drama, you get the picture. The thing is I'm a free spirit. After eighteen years (I'm also turning eighteen this Friday! Whaaaat?), I'm singing Disney princess songs out loud and praying like CRAZY to find the path that will lead me where God wants me to be. I know you probably don't know me that well, but I would really love it if you'd pray with me, and I would be happy to pray with you about anything you need, too, if you'll write me and tell me.  
I hope I didn't bore you with all of that. Sorry if I did; I know it's not what you're here for. You're here for some MERLIN FLUFF! (cheers and applause) Well, here you have it, folks..._

* * *

**Five Times Merlin Held Arthur, and One Time Arthur Held Merlin**

**One.**

The first time was fated by nothing but Merlin's perfect ability to end up in the wrong place at the right time, but it would remain in his mind for the rest of his long life.

Nothing then but a young, plucky manservant with underdeveloped skills of controlling his magic, he was late in laundering Arthur's clothes, again, and he thanked the gods as he pushed open the door to the prince's chambers that the lights were all out and the place was silent inside. He was tired and Arthur would doubtlessly have something else readily available to accuse his manservant of _not_ doing, or of doing too slowly, or of not doing to the satisfaction of the prince's standards. Some things Merlin was willing to improve, but for the most part, Arthur was going to have to understand that his new manservant's ways were simply not going to change, no matter how much he huffed and ranted and threw dishes.

Merlin was careful as he reentered the dark chambers that had become so familiar to him after just three months; sometimes, he felt that these rooms were so familiar he was almost like a fitted piece of this place, like he had been born to be here and he would have found this city, this castle, this prince's chambers no matter where in the world he'd began. The past months of adventures had all but proven that to him.

He kept his steps quiet and quick, knowing what a light sleeper Arthur was, intending to set the basket of clean clothes near the door to put away in the morning. He'd just settled it on the floor, out of the way, when he saw it—dull, indirect moonlight reflecting off of ever-familiar blonde hair. Arthur hadn't heard Merlin enter, obviously, for he did not move from where he had his face pressed into his knees, his body curled up against the base of the column separating his bedchamber from the main part of the room. In fact, he did not move at all, except for the littlest twitch of his hand as Merlin watched.

"Arthur?"

The prince jolted as though Merlin's soft, concerned voice had been a physical blow.

"Are you ill?" the young manservant asked, as he circled the table, because why else would Arthur be sitting on the floor, with his head bent, this late at night? "Should I get Gaius, my lord?"

It was then, as he crouched down beside him, that Merlin realized Arthur was wiping hastily at his face; even in the low light of the room, the red, puffy wetness around the deep blue of his eyes was clearly visible, despite how Arthur turned his face to try to hide it.

"No," the prince snapped too loudly, as Merlin's mouth fell open at the sight of him. "Are you really that stupid—you don't know how to knock?"

Merlin prepared to answer him, but he did not pause long enough.

"Get out, now." Punctuated by another wipe at his eyes with his sleeve and a tiny sniff.

Merlin shifted the slightest bit, his balance off in the awkward way he was crouched, and could not think how to react as he stared at his master who had, just hours ago, been standing proud and strong as he told Merlin how slow he was being. He could smell the scent of dark wine on Arthur; he'd drunk much of it since then. There was an empty bottle turned over on the floor. Arthur was not himself when he was drunk, not at all.

"Did you not hear me, you idiot?" Arthur's voice was as hard and vicious as a serpent's…or it would have been, if it hadn't been trembling as though he were about to fall apart right there. "_Get out_, or I'll have you _thrown out_."

Merlin seriously doubted that. Arthur would have died before he'd want any of the guards to see him this way. He'd rather have died than have _anyone_ see him this way. The warlock wondered, just briefly, if perhaps he should obey and leave the prince to bear whatever this burden was alone, but then he saw it—a stain of red obvious even in the dark on Arthur's sleeve, and it obviously wasn't any of the wine he'd had to drink.

He stood and got one of the rags he'd just washed from the basket.

Arthur huffed angrily and tried to tug his arm away as Merlin pulled up his sleeve; the servant only caught a glimpse of the long gash, and Arthur had hidden it again, but the alcohol had made Arthur's senses dull and he was weak, and so Merlin tugged his arm again.

"Let me clean it," he said, quietly but firmly.

Arthur, where his other hand was covering his forehead, opened his eyes and peered at him darkly.

"And then I'll go," Merlin added, not breaking his gaze. "I promise. Just let me wrap it up."

Arthur said nothing else, just moved his hand down to cover his eyes, and so Merlin took that as permission. He tried not to let any feeling show on his face as he pulled up Arthur's sleeve to his elbow and saw the cut was longer than he expected, bleeding shallowly, and there were bruises at Arthur's wrist. They were bruises in the shapes of fingerprints.

"Who did this to you?" He kept his voice barely above a whisper, because they both knew it wasn't his business, though he strongly suspected he could figure out who had done this, and then again if Kilgharrah and his talk of destiny were to be believed, it really _was_ his business.

Arthur just shook his head, not moving his hand from over his eyes, and Merlin could hardly believe this was really his master, who was known across all the realms for his courage and strength far beyond his years.

Perhaps that was the problem, he realized suddenly, as he wrapped the clean rag tightly around the wound. Arthur was just a boy—only a year or two older than Merlin himself, not even come of crowning age yet. The troubles that had been rising up at the northern borders over the past couple of weeks had been awful ones; Merlin did not know the details, but he knew that Arthur had been more irritable and tired-looking since it had started. The council had been looking to Arthur for answers, and Uther had allowed it, wanting to train and prove his son's worth as future king. They'd disagreed in the meeting earlier; he knew that, too, because Arthur had hurled his cape and crown into the far corners of his chambers afterward.

He'd gone to talk to his father before Merlin had left to do the laundry, and now, here they were.

"Was it your father?" he asked, as he tightened the knot to hold the rag, and he was careful with his tone, keeping it low and not pressing so that Arthur would not close up completely.

The young man seemed to understand that Merlin knew; there was little use denying it, and so, still without moving, he murmured in a voice slurred with drunkenness,

"He'd drunk too much. He was upset with me. That's all. He wouldn't do this if he were thinking properly."

And Merlin knew right then that, however good Uther tried to be to his son, this had happened before—possibly many times.

He moved so that he was sitting instead of merely crouching down.

"Come on, let's get you into your nightclothes," he urged softly, putting his hand unconsciously on Arthur's shoulder. "You need some rest."

"I'm fine," he murmured, his voice muffled from his having buried his face back in his arms. "I'll go to bed. Just go."

There was something in the way he said it, or perhaps it was in the way he looked so pitiable and young…whatever it was, Merlin knew that every fibre of his being would protest it if he stood to leave.

"Arthur," he said, ever more softly than before, "I know I'm just a servant, and I know I don't matter, but I don't want you to feel that you are alone."

Arthur just shook his head slightly at something, his face still hidden.

"I am," were the words Merlin swore he barely heard, and then Arthur lifted his head, just slightly, so that his eyes could stare off toward the far wall, unseeingly. "If I choose one way, people will get injured in the battle that will come. If I choose another way, more people might get hurt or even killed. I don't…I can't…"

His drunken mumblings faded into a tiny grunt of pain as he buried his face in his arms yet again.

Merlin knew nothing of this problem, just as he knew nothing of the burden Arthur bore, but he did know one thing, as surely and completely as he knew his own name.

"You _can_, Arthur." In his urgency, he laid his arm across the prince's trembling back and gripped his shoulder with a strong, steadying hand. "I know it's hard, but you were given this destiny for a reason. The gods knew that you could bear it. They knew you are the only one who can. You're strong, and brave, and intelligent…when you're not being a stupid dollophead."

He didn't get a laugh, but Arthur stopped trembling. That was good enough.

"More than that, though," he continued, "you're _good_, sire—better than Uther ever could be."

He knew he was treading on thin ice, speaking in such a way about the king and Arthur's father, who he respected and defended in all regards, but he could not stop himself. It was as though something within him just knew what to say, how to say it, what would fix this. He only knew with Arthur, though. Always Arthur.

"I know you can do it," Merlin whispered to him. "I know you'll make the right decision. Only you can. The people believe in you."

Arthur had frozen altogether, and despite his mind-addling drunkenness, Merlin knew he was listening intently to every word his servant spoke. He lifted his face, his red-rubbed and alcohol-dimmed eyes meeting Merlin's clear and sure blue.

Merlin smiled gently and tugged on his arm, careful not to hurt the cut there.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you to bed. You need sleep for tomorrow."

Arthur allowed Merlin to pull him just a little, but then he suddenly paused.

"Thanks," he muttered, touched his hand to Merlin's wrist, still draped across the prince's back, and leant to his side so that his head was touching his servant's shoulder.

The young warlock was a bit too startled to move for a moment; Arthur's touches were generally bruising punches to the arm and other such gestures of disapproval. To have him feel so soft and gentle and warm against Merlin's side was strange…and yet it was good, somehow. It felt right, to be supporting him like this.

After a long moment of thought in unbroken stillness, Merlin realized that Arthur's breathing was slow and even. Careful, he swiped his hand over the prince's face, feeling that his eye was closed and his expression relaxed. Merlin had seen him sleeping so many times in the past months; Arthur slept like a child, quiet and calm, all hints of the stress from his life always gone. This time, he would have still been up, stressed and upset, and all at once Merlin had never been gladder for being here with him, to help him through in times such as this.

The next day, Arthur was himself again, making the right choices to fix the problems his father's kingdom faced and earning Uther's approval and the people's further trust for it. He kicked Merlin's leg when he almost accidentally tripped him and called him an idiot for knocking his cupful of water over later.

Merlin was never quite sure if Arthur remembered that night, but it didn't matter whether he did or not. Merlin would always remember holding him tightly while he slept, praying silently for Arthur's mind to be cleared and his heart to lead him well.

**To be continued**

* * *

_I was going to just write the whole thing as one chapter, but this by itself was just over 2,000 words, so I figured I'd not drown you in a flood of more. Thanks so much for reading, and happy Easter (three days late). More to come soon!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow! Thanks so much to everyone who wrote me reviews/PMs with such encouragements, and more thanks for all the happy-birthdays, too! I was so startled (in a good way) by all the people who took time to write me; thank you for sharing your stories. And I'm also glad to meet so many more fellow Believers. For all the prayer requests you sent to me, I'll pray for each of them individually; I promise.  
One reviewer mentioned Uther's slight/possible out-of-character behavior; I almost thought he was a little OOC myself, but then I thought about his temper, and how alcohol changes a person, and I decided it was possible that he would hit Arthur if the situation was right. Thanks for getting that without me having to explain! All of my readers are so smart.  
This chapter is much shorter than the last one, but I hope you like it anyway!_

* * *

**Two.**

The second time, Merlin was shaking. He was cold and wet and exhausted, but he was shaking not because of any of that. He trembled purely from lingering fear and adrenaline, and the echoes in his mind of what could have been.

When he caught his breath and the darkness receded to the edges of his vision, finally fading altogether, he realized that he was sitting on the shore of the lake. Unconsciously, his arms had locked around the freezing, soaked body lying halfway on top of him, unmoving as Merlin clung to the freezing chainmail weighing them both down.

Arthur's hair was dripping with the lake water; it ran down his armored shoulder and onto Merlin's chest, but the young warlock wasn't even thinking about getting them both dry yet. His heart was still pounding through his whole body, his head dizzy with the magic that had been present beneath those deadly waves, and all he could think was,

_Another minute…one more minute and…_

Arthur had almost died before. It was a nearly daily occurrence, in fact, but this was different somehow. This time, Merlin hadn't used his magic to knock a speeding arrow out of its path. He hadn't dropped a large tree branch on the head of an attacker. He hadn't used his magic at all. It had just been him, pushing his way desperately through the water to get to his drowning prince, not even thinking about how he had destroyed Sophia and her father, not caring about anything else in the world but reaching Arthur before it was too late. One more minute, and Arthur would have been dead, and Merlin would have been searching for a body instead of saving him.

Merlin clung tighter to his friend, reflexively. He lifted his eyes up to the grey-lit sky, and though he was soaked and the evening breeze was making him shiver with cold, he had never felt his place in the world more certainly than he did at that moment.

Without Merlin, Prince Arthur of Camelot—the Once and Future King—would have been lost forever, and no one would have even known where to look for him. It would have been a slow and pointless death. He would never be revered or even remembered.

That was never going to happen. Merlin vowed it as his fingers tightened against pinching chainmail. He was all right. They both were. Merlin could feel him breathing. They were fine.

He held Arthur as close to him as he could as the sun began to set, the darkness falling around them. He let his chin rest on Arthur's damp hair and allowed himself to be his guardian, and nothing more, just for a few minutes in the stillness of Avalon's lakeside.

* * *

_Just in case you couldn't tell, this was set in the episode The Gates of Avalon (Season 1, Episode 7). _


	3. Chapter 3

_This chapter was a MONSTER. Not even kidding.  
I'm sorry I've taken so long! I thought that once I got done with my work and wouldn't have to go back to school for the remainder of the year, I would have so much more time. Turns out, celebrating one's graduation is really just spending hours doing stuff you don't want to do with people you don't like. Go figure. SAT test is this Saturday, so if I don't update before then, I'm asking you to PLEASE PRAY FOR ME. (Also, does anyone have any advice at all about it? I would love to have some since I'm an Honors grad and I have to make 1000 or more, thanks so much for letting me know so far ahead of time, my dear unorganized school.)  
I hope all of you are doing well! I would love to hear about what's going on with you, if you'd like to write me sometime. I'd love to see a movie with you, too, if half of you didn't live thousands of miles away from Winston-Salem, North Carolina._

* * *

**Three.**

The third time, Merlin planned for it.

He knew. He knew as well as he knew himself—better, even—that Arthur was hiding. The king was not cowardly, of course not; he was _never_ that. He was hurt, though. He was so very, very hurt and all the murmurings from the members of court and the urges from his uncle to do "what needs to be done" were doing nothing to help and everything to harm.

It had been five and a half years since he'd held him that first time. Arthur had needed comfort and support since then, and Merlin had always been glad to give him a word of sincerity or a pat to his hand or even, just very occasionally, an arm on his shoulders. This time was nothing like those times, however. This time, Arthur had been wounded worse than any time before—worse than Morgana's betrayal and his father's death. He had put all of his love and his trust, every good thought he had had in the present and every hope for the future, in one woman.

She had taken it all and pressed it to the lips of another man.

Merlin's magic had a sense (Arthur always called them "funny feelings") of the truth. He knew, deep down, that there was something more to it than Gwen's being unable to decide between two men. She loved Arthur; he knew she did. He had listened to her speak of him and watched how she'd waited to be with him. That and knowing that "Lancelot" had been a Shade sent by Morgana with intent were what stopped him from resenting her. It's what made him fight to keep her in Camelot, because of course if he were convinced that she was a liar and would only bring more harm, Merlin would tell Arthur to let her go. Gwen was his friend and he loved her, but if he knew she was truly bad, he would not want her to stay any more than he had Morgana. He knew she wasn't bad, though. She had just been tricked like an innocent animal into a trap.

All of that didn't matter, though, as he entered Arthur's chambers and found it all dark within. All that mattered now was taking care of Arthur. After so many years, he knew that.

He was glad he'd just cleaned the room, because it prevented him from possibly (probably) tripping over something as he maneuvered expertly through the dark, past the table and through the archway, until finally he reached the figure sitting on the bed.

Arthur was facing the window, but staring down at his hands; he could have been watching the way the pale moonlight outlined his palms and fingers, but Merlin knew he was seeing something much deeper and darker than that. He'd probably watched Gwen kiss Lancelot in his mind throughout the whole day, and his real nightmares always hit him hardest in the nighttime.

Merlin lit a candelabrum and set it down on the bureau, then took a step back. The soft glow lit up one side of Arthur's face, and the young man felt his own demeanor fill with compassion for him at the sight. He just sighed quietly, however, and glanced around the newly-lit floor. No bottles were present, and there was not even the faintest scent of alcohol in the place. Arthur looked like this, weak and heartbroken, without any outside influence. That almost made Merlin want to hate Gwen and Lancelot both; it made him hate Morgana even more.

"I am so sorry, Arthur."

A heartbeat passed. Arthur turned his head away from the light, just a little.

"Please, don't trouble me now, Merlin."

His eyes met his manservant's, and there was much sorrow on both sides.

"There's nothing you can do," the king told him, not angrily, just plainly and honestly. "You know that. Just…please, leave me, Merlin."

Merlin let the words settle in his mind. Arthur wasn't shouting; he wasn't trembling, or hoarse; there was not a single sign of him that Merlin recognized as a plea for help. It was a new thing for the warlock to comprehend. Perhaps it would be better to leave him alone. Perhaps he needed peace for once to bear this.

He'd barely taken a step and Arthur was speaking again, trembling and hoarse.

"Wait. Don't leave me."

And Merlin's heart broke completely for him.

He turned and planted his feet firmly on the floor, looking into Arthur's eyes, open and wide and pleading.

"I won't," he promised, quietly but surely, "I will never leave you."

Arthur's gaze dropped to the floor, his arm lowering where he'd raised it up to call Merlin back probably without realizing it. He seemed almost ashamed of his loss of control, but not quite enough to be really sorry.

"That's what Guinevere said," he murmured, faintly, and he seemed to be voicing his inner thoughts aloud rather than speaking to Merlin.

Merlin watched him with eyes filled with mercy, his spirit filled with the wish to take away the pain that turned his king's voice into a low mumble and made his movements slow and tired. Before he could think of anything to say, Arthur continued, running his hand wearily through his hair while the candles flickered violent shadows around them.

"I don't understand," he said, sounding as lost as an abandoned child. "What have I done wrong? I tried…I thought I was good to her. I tried to be good to her. What did I do, Merlin? Tell me that. Please tell me what I did."

"Nothing." Merlin couldn't bear to hear it anymore. "You didn't do anything bad, Arthur. You _were_ good to her. You did everything right."

Of course he did. He was Arthur.

"Then why?"

There was clear distress in his voice now, as he raised his head (tilted it really, like he just didn't have the will to raise it); his eyes were desperately blue, the only color Merlin could see in the golden candlelight.

"Why did she do this?" he went on, every syllable more shaky, though he was trying to hide it. "I must have done _something_. There must have been some reason, some doubt, why she would choose him over me. I must have given her reason …hurt her, somehow…"

Merlin stayed silent for a long moment. His eyes blinked upward toward the canopy of the bed, then down to the candlesticks, anywhere but at his king, so that he could think clearly about his next words without the distraction of Arthur's quivering shoulders and disarrayed hair. At last, he took one step closer, but not too close; Arthur despised pity.

"Arthur, you did nothing wrong. Do you hear me?"

At the uncustomary firmness in his manservant's tone, Arthur lifted tired eyes, and there was a bit of what Merlin thought was hope there.

"You were good to her," he continued, never breaking Arthur's gaze, mixing more gentleness into his words now that he had his friend's attention. "She just made a mistake. That's all. You didn't do it."

Arthur looked away.

"It's my fault," he said, and Merlin sighed quietly.

"It's not," he told him.

Arthur was silent once more, and Merlin hoped that he was considering his sensible words; the king was always wise in taking everyone's counsel into consideration, especially Merlin's. This was different than most matters they had faced in the past, however; this was something much deeper and more permanent. He could only hope Arthur would see past the hurt clouding his eyes to the wisdom of his faithful friend. His hopes were dashed by Arthur's next statement.

"It doesn't matter," the king nearly whispered, running both hands over his temples. "It doesn't matter what I do. I'm never going to be good enough."

Merlin was shaking his head even before Arthur was done speaking. He knew this would happen. Arthur doubted himself enough as it was. This could only make it worse. He took another half-step closer.

"That's not true," he said, and he believed it with all his heart and hoped that would translate to his friend. "You_ are_ good enough. You're more than good enough. You're a great king, Arthur, and you will make a great husband someday."

He stepped close enough to touch his friend, but refrained from it as he continued, not wanting Arthur to feel that he spoke from sympathy and not sincerity.

"That's why you have to remember that Gwen loves you," he said, trying to hide the fervency that rose up in his chest. "She does, Arthur, and you love her. She made a mistake. You have such a forgiving heart; I know you can forgive her. Haven't you both suffered enough over this?"

It was Arthur's turn to shake his head, and when he lifted his eyes up to Merlin's face again, there was something so terribly anguished and guilt-ridden there that the young warlock was actually startled by it.

"You don't understand, Merlin," he said, and even his voice was saturated with that awful feeling in his eyes. "It's not just…her." (His voice stumbled away in instinct from saying her name.) "It's everyone. Everyone I come to love the most—I bring hurt to them all."

Merlin had watched the man Arthur had become. He had seen every possible emotion and mood of which he was capable, and observed every difficult decision he had ever had to make; one thing he knew about his king sprang up to the forefront of his mind—Arthur's chivalry was as harmful as it was profitable. A man who feels every sad tear of his people as a failure on his part cannot look at the consequences of others and not invent a fault for himself somewhere in it all, even if he never did any wrong.

"Arthur," he said after steadying his thoughts with a deep breath, "this _is not_ your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. You help so many. Your people love you. You never hurt anyone."

"I killed my mother."

Merlin thought he had been expecting everything, but he could only stand there, shocked mute.

Arthur's eyes were burning blue with pain, and though Merlin had only met him when they were both nearly of age, he would have been willing to swear that this was what Arthur looked like as a young child when he heard the story of Ygraine's death for the first time. He could not even think of any words to say while the older man went on, unshed tears choking his voice—the same voice with which he brought the courage and strength of his kingdom.

"I killed my mother," he said again. "She was beautiful and kind. Everyone loved her, even my father."

Merlin thought in a flash of the one and only time he'd ever seen Arthur's mother—or her spirit, at least. She'd been so young still from dying before her time, the colors of her skin, hair, and eyes all just a shade lighter than Arthur's own, her face so full of love and mercy as she touched her grown son's face and told him how proud she was of him and how she would have gladly died for the man he had become. Arthur was right. She had seemed perfect.

"If I'd never been born," Arthur was so close to tears now, closer to breaking than Merlin had ever seen him, "she would still be alive. My father would not have died to save me. Camelot would have a king and queen, and everything would have been…different."

Merlin wanted to speak then, but Arthur cut him off.

"I ruined it all." He was letting tears fall now, or perhaps trying to stop them, with his hands over his face. "I…_murdered_ her. Someone who does that cannot be good. There's badness _in_ me. I've finally realized that. I'm a curse to all those around me. I am the reason for all the pain that's befallen everyone."

For a long moment, Merlin looked down at his king and all he could think was how strange that truth could be mixed in with such a terrible lie. It was Arthur's birth that brought the death of Ygraine, but it was Uther who designed it all. It was Arthur's death that Uther died to prevent, but it was the doing of a king who sought revenge upon Arthur for the death of his son, when it was the other prince who had challenged Arthur in his arrogance and lost. Arthur was the pivotal point of everything, but the blame rested all around him. Merlin, for all his preparation before entering this dark and chilly room, felt anxious as he realized how difficult it would be to pick the lies out of Arthur's twisted truths.

In the end, he knelt down and carefully pulled Arthur's hand away. Arthur allowed it, but didn't look up from the floor even when another tear rolled down his face.

"Arthur, listen to me." Merlin kept his voice soft and sure. "What happened to your mother was not your fault. Uther made that decision for you both, before you were even born. You couldn't be blamed for it."

Arthur turned his head just slightly away. Merlin suspected he was trying to hide another tear, but he saw it fall to the king's sleeve anyway.

"If it weren't for me," he said as quietly as Merlin, and there was no sense of hope at his servant's words, "Morgana might not have left. Guinevere could have married Lancelot. She wouldn't have had to leave Camelot. Her father might not even have died."

Merlin wondered what wrong path of logic could possibly have led Arthur to such conclusions. Morgana had hated Uther for his lies. Uther had sentenced Tom to die. Guinevere had cheated on him, knowing the penalty was death (which Arthur's mercy only prevented). It was all the choices of others—Uther's to hate magic, Morgana's to blame everyone for the lies surrounding her life, Guinevere and Lancelot's to meet in the night, and on and on. Merlin could see it all for what it was, as he had always done—sometimes, he thought that Arthur must be the only good thing to come out of it all.

Before he could think of a way to voice any of that, however, Arthur spoke again, the saddest words yet, in a tone low and terribly accepting and nothing like the vibrant, happy King Arthur that Merlin knew.

"I was my father's worst mistake. I should never have been born. It wasn't…right."

_Right_ he said as though the earth itself had been insulted by his birth, as though everything had begun to rot away and fall into chaos because an infant with blue eyes had lived while his mother had died.

As Arthur's words rung in his head, that Merlin could bear it no longer.

He shifted again, to a more comfortable place on his knees where he could look better at his king, and he did not care if his next declarations would sound ridiculous or out of his place as an insignificant servant; he spoke them anyway.

"Arthur, listen to me."

Arthur did not move, staring down at his hands in his lap, one side of his troubled face lit by the candles.

"Do not _ever_ say that." He only barely managed to keep his voice from sounding angry (not at Arthur, never—not even when he wanted to be, but at everything else that had caused this), as he stared at an angle up into his friend's handsome face. "Do you hear me?"

"It's true, Merlin."

The mumbled words had barely left the king's lips before Merlin was countering them evenly.

"No, it's _not_. Your life is not a mistake."

He could hear the passion saturating every word, and he knew it must sound so strange to Arthur, who knew so little of how his servant loved him, and how his life was tied to him, but for once he made no effort to keep it out.

"You can't know that." Arthur still did not move.

"I do." _How he did._ "You've done so much for your kingdom, your people—"

"No more than my parents could have done, if they'd had the chance."

Merlin was quiet again at that. As untrue as it was, there was no way for him to counter such a notion, not with all the secrets he must keep. There was only one way for anyone to understand—one reason that he was absolutely, irrevocably certain of Arthur's superiority to Uther and his fathers before him. Arthur was the greatest king who had ever and would ever stand in Albion. Merlin knew that with all of his being, and Arthur knew nothing in comparison. How could he? He knew so little of their destiny, of who he was…of what he meant to anyone and everyone, but especially to Merlin. His life was invaluable to Merlin.

The young warlock looked up at his king again, his sharp eyes taking in every line and color of his face. With every passing moment, every flicker of the candlelight, Arthur looked more and more…destroyed. There was simply no other word, and, with every moment, it was destroying Merlin too.

"Camelot was never meant to be mine, nor was Guinevere. It all belonged to someone else, and my life, being here…I've…_shattered_ everything that was meant to be." He said the word like it was shards of glass climbing up his throat. "I should never have been here. I shouldn't ever have lived at all."

Merlin knew that Arthur did not understand his own worth; he knew that Arthur, who was so honest that not even his expressions could lie, suffered intensely at the loss of someone's loyalty. He knew that beyond his teasing exterior and his strong leadership, Arthur was complex in a way that most would never realize. He knew that Arthur's deepest desire was to do good to his people, his court, his men, his friends, and even his enemies. He knew _everything_ about Arthur, and yet he would never have guessed this could be a thought in his mind. To believe such a thing—that his life should never have been, when Merlin and so many others would be lost without him—was so impossible and insulting to Merlin. No one else in all the kingdom would ever think to say it about Arthur, and yet he saw past all the good he was and what he'd done and believed it about himself.

"Don't say that," the servant whispered almost unintentionally.

Arthur's expression crumpled, his hand coming up to shield from Merlin's sight the tears that were falling.

"I don't understand," he said, with a little choking sob, "why I'm even still alive now. Is this my punishment for whatever I've done—to lose everyone I love, to drive them all away, because of what my birth cost my mother? Is it my fault that…everyone…g_oes_…like this? Everyone I love dies, or _chooses_…"

Fading thoughts, spoken brokenly and with tiny tremors, like a man nearly driven out of his mind, like he was moments from giving up because of what he had lost.

Merlin had never really shed tears in front of Arthur before, something—perhaps the magic—in him always leading him instinctively to give sound advice without his own feelings to affect it. Now, however, as he reflected back to so many years, to Morgana's betrayal and Uther's tyranny and a dozen other things that had twisted and shaped their destiny, he realized all at once that, though he had done all he could to help him whilst trying to fathom it himself, he had never really _seen_ it all through Arthur's eyes. He had known the truth. He had been fortunate enough to hear it from Kilgharrah and the Druids and Gaius and many other voices. Arthur had had no one to explain it—the reasons behind the actions of his foolish and bitter loved ones. He had had only himself and that mistaken chivalry to take all the blame.

Merlin had never cried in front of him before, but now, the brave warlock was close to weeping, not for any of the people who had gone and the tragedies that had befallen them, but for Arthur and Arthur only.

"Everyone leaves me." Another choking breath that would have been a sob were the king not so strong. "Perhaps everyone always will."

"Arthur," his tone was nearly a whisper, his innermost thoughts spilling out almost before he could stop them, "there is so much…"

He forced himself to halt there, knowing that he was much too close to losing all thought for the consequences and simply telling him everything about their past, their present, the incredible prophesies of their future…_everything_.

Merlin swallowed and controlled his feelings and pined, just for a moment, for the day when he would be able to tell Arthur everything.

"There is so much that I wish you could understand," he said instead, quietly but intensely, resisting the urge to rest his hand on Arthur's knee like he was a child. "There's so much I wish I could explain, but there is one thing you must realize, Arthur."

The king, though his breathing was still uneven and shoulders bent with the burden he bore, had stopped weeping altogether. He sat still now, staring at the candlelight golden on the stone floor, his expression blank, like all the life had been drained from him in his few tears and he had become just a shell.

"_I know you_," Merlin almost whispered to him. "For years, I've been here. I've seen everything that's happened, and I've watched you, Arthur; I know you. You know that, don't you? I know you better than anyone."

Normally, he was not so forward, but he had to be sure Arthur realized that, if he hadn't ever before.

"Hey, look at me."

Arthur may have rolled his eyes just slightly in annoyance, like he was so tired and so listless that he didn't even feel any good words worth hearing anymore. Merlin didn't mind, because he looked at him anyway, despairing deep blue to steady light blue.

"I know you," he said again, even softer, never breaking his gaze. "I know your favorite shirt is the red one and that you usually fall asleep on your back and wake up on your side. I know that you hate oranges and you love to sit in front of the fireplace when it's cold out. I know what you do when you're angry and happy and sad and scared. I know _why_ you do. I know all of it."

Arthur was fading out; Merlin could see it. He had looked away after the first few words; his weary mind simply didn't care about all of this, not when it was reeling like this. But Merlin wasn't finished yet—not nearly.

"Do you know why I know that, Arthur?"

Only the king's eyes moved, just enough so that Merlin would go on.

"I know," the warlock said, "because I was born to serve you."

There, at last, Arthur looked at him—really looked on his own, without being compelled. Merlin looked back, steadily.

"I was." He swallowed back some emotion and kept talking. "All my life in Ealdor, I knew that I was meant for something more. Then, I came here, and when Nimueh poisoned me you went against your father to find the cure when no one else would have. After that, I knew. I am meant to be your servant until the day I die."

Arthur looked so tired, but his eyes hadn't moved away from Merlin's face, so the young warlock kept going with more resolve.

"I believe in you, Arthur. I believe _because_ of you. I believe that there is good in everyone and that kindness can bring it out. I believe that respect and honor come from justice, but real peace comes from mercy. I believe that everyone is equal, and that even a servant's life can mean something to a kingdom. I believe that because I've seen it in you, our king."

He swallowed tightly, his fingers shaking with the intensity.

"So don't you _dare_ tell me," he said lowly, feeling his magic trembling within him, "that your life isn't worth anything, when you are the reason that _I _have hope. If you were a mistake, then I am too, because I was meant to be at your side and I am proud of that."

Arthur was breathing heavily again, and though Merlin could see no tears in his eyes yet, there was emotion there once more.

"All these people," Merlin went on, gripping the duvet beside Arthur to channel his own emotion, "who…who leave you, betray you…they're just…blind, I suppose. They're blinded by their own pain and they let it turn into selfishness and sometimes to hate. But that's not your fault."

Arthur looked away now, shaking his head, but not, Merlin felt, with as much conviction as before.

"They hate me," he said, and Merlin couldn't quite tell if he still blamed himself for that or if he was just heartbroken that it was true.

"None of them hate _you_," he replied. "They're just hurt; they don't understand love anymore and they blame you because of who you are. They betray you because it's easy to do, because you're good and you're not selfish and you _don't_ hate and they don't have to fear that. It means you're stronger than them. It means you're good."

Arthur held his breath and released it several times, his head on his forehead as he steadied himself with Merlin's words. Merlin gave him a moment, and then he said, more to voice his thoughts than to address his king,

"There's nothing wrong with you, Arthur. You don't deserve this, and I am so sorry that you have to suffer. I would stop it all, if I could." He thought of his magic, and wished that there was some spell to rewrite the world. "But don't ever say that it's your fault, because it's not. Your life is worth more than you know. You're the Once and Future King."

It was in that moment that Arthur abruptly stood and took two steps away. Merlin stood as well but remained where he was.

"Why are you talking like this, Merlin?" The king rubbed his face wearily with his back still turned. "You complain all the time about how I treat you, and yet you're the only one who hasn't….If what you're saying is true, then tell me why you're the only one who sees it. Tell me why nobody else has."

There were so many reasons. Merlin's magic, the prophesies, and most significantly, the bond they shared, but he settled for,

"I guess I'm just clever."

Arthur's little exhale was some cross between a snort and a tiny laugh, and when he turned and met Merlin's eyes, there was finally peace there.

The servant took one step toward him and added, seriously,

"And I do understand loyalty. It may not be much comfort, but you will always have me. I promise you that."

Arthur was standing taller again, and though his handsome face was thin with exhaustion, Merlin recognized more of his friend now and less of that shadow he'd been. He took another step closer, intending to pull Arthur back to the bed so that he could get a good rest.

"Do you really believe all of that, Merlin?" the king almost surprised him by asking.

"Would I say it if I didn't?" he said simply.

Something in Arthur's face crumpled again, and then he was wrapping his arms around him—loosely at first, but then he twisted his hands in the material of the old fawn jacket, like Merlin was the only thing left in his life to hold onto in that moment and the only thing he wanted to hold onto.

Merlin felt a strange mix of sorrow and relief as he returned the embrace without a word. He listened as Arthur let a few more tiny sobs escape and then coughed roughly. The manservant tightened his arms instinctively and worried that the man would be sick by morning from all this.

"Thank you, Merlin." The whispered words were slightly slurred and muffled in his shoulder.

From nearly the beginning of his time here, Merlin had complained over Arthur's never thanking him for anything. Hearing it now, he expected that it would satisfy him, but instead he could only think of how Arthur had thought himself unworthy and how he didn't deserve to feel that way, even the slightest bit.

"Don't thank me," he said quietly. "I'm your friend, Arthur."

The king pulled away and looked into his eyes. Merlin was glad to find the dark blues were clearer now.

"You can have the morning off tomorrow," Arthur said, and his voice was strong again, too, "just this once."

Merlin considered it for a moment.

"Would you really rather have George?" he asked with a knowing smile.

Arthur's little burst of laughter was soft but real and it made Merlin's smile broader.

"No," the king answered honestly, and didn't bother offering any more explanation than that.

"I'll just stay, then." He smiled again, and then hazarded, "Are you hungry?"

Arthur swallowed, and it only took one heartbeat before he was nodding.

Merlin sighed just a little. Arthur was going to be fine.

* * *

_So can you see why this chapter was so hard? Yeesh.  
PS I think I've written everyone back who's written me, but if I missed your PM, please let me know. Talk to you soon!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Did you know that frogs don't move out of the way when you're coming at them on a skateboard? I didn't, but I sure do now. Good thing ballet and tree-climbing taught me enough balance not to crash from the grossed-outness. Yeek.  
Anyway, thanks for all the prayers and advice regarding my SAT; it wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it was going to be. That doesn't necessarily mean I knew what I was doing, though, I guess. (Hehe) Hoping my reading/writing skills make up for pitiful lack of math skills.  
This is a shorter chapter, set just after The Death Song of Uther Pendragon. Despite its shortness, I really liked writing it. Arthur is just so adorable (or as my sisters/friends and I say, "so fluffy I'm gonna die!")._

* * *

**Four.**

The fourth time, he was still a little shaky, though it had been hours since he had seen one of his worst fears come true. Even should he live a thousand centuries, he would never forget the look of savage hatred in Uther Pendragon's cold, dead eyes, and he was sure he would have a nightmare of it that very night.

For now, however, all thoughts of his one great secret's finally being revealed to the tyrant king were pushed to the back of his mind. It didn't matter now. Uther's spirit was gone. His reign was over, and finally, Arthur's could really begin. Finally, the Once and Future King could break away from that shadow his father had spread over their past and find his own rule.

That did not mean it was easy to let go.

Merlin entered with no warning; he did not knock or come inside slowly or noisily to announce himself, as he often did. He slid through the heavy gate and approached the solemn figure quickly and softly, without consideration or pause. He knew what to do, and where he once would have hesitated, he never would now.

Arthur only noticed his presence when he stopped beside him. The young king turned his head away from the stone sarcophagus, with that hard, unforgiving expression designed into the carved face there, and looked into the gentle, real face of his friend.

Merlin studied his king's eyes for a few heartbeats, and was both glad and slightly surprised to find only a little pain and grief there—like a sad but willing farewell.

Arthur took a step to the side, so that his back was turned to the carved stone that held his father's earthly remains. He sighed quietly, and then all the pain and grief was gone entirely. A familiar smile, peaceful and reassuring, reached the king's deep blue eyes as he nodded to Merlin's silent questions. The sight of it flooded Merlin's heart with relief and, somehow, hope.

He was not sure which of them moved first, but when he looked over Arthur's shoulder to the replica of Uther on the stone coffin, he closed his eyes away from it and pressed his face into his friend's hair, tightening his arms around him. Arthur answered by patting his shoulder a bit too heavily with one hand and gripping the back of Merlin's jacket with the other.

On that day, Merlin knew, if they'd never really acknowledged it before, they both did now. They were brothers, simply and completely. Nothing would ever take that away, and nothing could ever pull them apart.


	5. Chapter 5

_So could I just attend college at Barnes & Noble? All the knowledge I will ever need is in those four walls, and there's also a media section and a Starbucks right in the middle.  
For reasons that are just horribly ridiculous and only increase my desire to GET THE FLYING MONKEYS OF OZ OUT OF THIS TOWN ASAP, I had to stay two nights in a hotel fifteen minutes away from where my bed is. Please don't ask. My life is a soap opera. Anyway, there was a B&N not five minutes from the hotel, so all day Thursday, that's where I was. And it was great. Davis, the really tall guy with the chill personality who works in the media section, guarantees that they don't do a thorough sweep of the back room before closing; he thinks that if I can't bribe and/or blackmail the higher-ups to let me refurbish it into my room, I could hide on top of the refrigerator until after everyone leaves. I think Davis is brilliant.  
Also, I went to Chicago AND Myrtle Beach within the space of two weeks, and let me just say that big city+ocean=where I belong. Honolulu, here I come. (Someday. Hopefully.) So that's why updates have been slow. Plus my laptop is slowly giving up the ghost, I think.  
Sorry about all the babbling. It's been...weird. And this chapter brings up so many feels that I almost cried while writing it. Listening to "Time of Our Lives" by Tyrone Wells probably didn't help the situation any. (Seriously, that guy is such a talented music artist! Why is he not more popular?)  
Right. On to the story. Thanks for sticking with me so far, everybody! :)_

* * *

**Five.**

The fifth time, he did it because Arthur asked.

"Just hold me, please."

The words were whispered into the thick air around them, and they were so soft and so feeble, but they cut Merlin deeper than the first crash of close lightning that had frightened him as a child, deeper than the first scream of terror he'd heard after coming to Camelot, deeper than even the feel of his own magic in this moment, desperate and wild as it was, coursing through his veins like it was grieving.

It was, he realized. It felt the sense of loss immersing them both.

He was finding it harder and harder to breathe, though this—sitting here on the soft grass—was the first real reprieve he'd had in over a day of constant movement and being aware of enemies; he was so very tired, and his body so numb from everything, and he was slowing realizing now that there was no reason to go on. Arthur wasn't even trembling anymore. He was still, so still, and his skin was getting colder every second, and Merlin was struggling just to think rationally beyond the sorrow that was beginning in his soul and spreading.

A gloved hand was patting his own with weak yet frantic assurance, but it wasn't enough to ease the tight pain in his chest. Nothing would ever be enough, after this.

Arthur was breathing slower. His body was relaxing against Merlin. He was getting paler every moment, much like the miserable sky above them. He was letting go.

"There's…something I want to say."

"No." It was too hard to catch his breath; he was exhausted, his strength gone, and yet he was willing to do anything, whatever it took, to stop this from happening, if only it were possible, if only he could make it possible. "You're not going to say goodbye."

"No…Merlin." Two eyes, so blue, weary beyond understanding but somehow still so bright, locked with his and he could not look away or speak at the vibrancy of them in the pale, pale face. "Everything you've done—I know now—for me, for Camelot…for the kingdom you helped me build."

"You'd have done it without me."

The words slipped out with almost humorous irony. How he'd longed for so many years to hear Arthur say it, to acknowledge Merlin's value in just a few words at least, but now that he had, all Merlin wanted was for his king to remember his own strength. He needed him just to survive now—nothing else, not to become a great king, or to learn to accept magic, or to live up to the man Merlin knew he could be. All of that was gone and passed. He didn't need any of it anymore.

He only needed Arthur. That was all. Just Arthur, alive and happy and with him.

Arthur was smiling up at him, his small, choking laugh echoing in Merlin's mind, and something told him to hold onto that sound, because he would need it later and this was the last chance he would have to remember it—Arthur's laugh.

"Maybe," was the king's only answer, neutral and smiling, like it was a joke and they both knew better.

Then those striking blue eyes started to dim, distracted gaze sliding past his Merlin's face into the endless sky above, and he wondered what Arthur was seeing there, what lit up his face with such a strange look. His heart knew the answer already, though. He had glimpsed the gates of Avalon himself, once.

Something shattered inside him as that thought struck, the shards cutting through him as he—or was it his magic?—was still pleading brokenly and desperately for him to stay, in a silent voice deep within him.

"I want to say…something I've never said to you before."

Arthur pulled his eyes away. _How? _How could he have managed to do that, with the end of his own life reflecting on his face? But Merlin knew the answer to that as well. If he were dying in Arthur's arms, he would find the clarity to keep his attention with him; he would watch him until he could not any longer.

A look of something pure passed across the handsome face as his clear eyes locked on Merlin's once more. That look chased away every shadow of pain, every haunted memory from Camlann and beyond, and even the weariness of unspoken fear that had been marring Arthur's features this past day. It took Merlin all of a moment's time to recognize it for what it was, for all of his own foolish secrets had kept it from Arthur's face before.

He would never forget how it felt to see perfect love, _Arthur's _perfect love—love for _him_, for the insignificant little manservant who had lied and hidden so much from him for so long, who had unwillingly abused his king's wholehearted trust by sneaking around him for sometimes-selfish reasons and assuring him otherwise…who had stolen his supper and cheated him out of his money and polished his armor and wrapped his wounds….Merlin, who was also Dragoon and Emrys and so much more…who Arthur recognized now for all that he was. It was him, _all of him_, that Arthur was seeing in the dim sunlight near Avalon's shore, and he loved him. All of him.

For the first time, they were looking at each other with no pretenses. It was just them, open and unguarded, and for a moment, it was perfect.

"Thank you."

He _had_ said it before, so many times, but never like this…never for all the things he did not know as well as those that he did.

A gloved hand touched his raven hair and blue eyes watched just long enough to be certain Merlin understood.

Merlin did.

Then Arthur was gone.

The gods—or nature, or destiny, or whatever it was; he did not care now—ensured that he was granted one more look into those stunning eyes…(beautiful eyes, why had he never told Arthur how beautiful his eyes were? _Why had he never told Arthur a lot of things…?)_…as he begged a near-silent, "Stay with me," but that was all he got—a flutter of pale lashes, a glimpse of fading life—and then the body he held was just that…a body, empty and cold and no longer his warm, vibrant, young king.

He kept his arms tight, never relenting his hold, until Kilgharrah's words sank into his heart when they finally reached Avalon. It seemed, unlike what he had believed such a short time ago, something _could_ tear them apart after all. For all his magic, he really couldn't save him.

He let the body slip out of his arms to the green earth.

* * *

_I AM still working on more TVITD fics, for you guys who have asked or haven't and are curious. I've been feeling a bit low lately (like everyone does, sometimes, I think), but I'm starting to "wake up" again. :) I hope you're all doing well, and don't forget to look up that song by Tyrone Wells. Next chapter soon!  
_


End file.
